


club-bearing, kneeling boy

by darnianwayne (caersun)



Category: DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, Gratuitous Use of Star Symbolism, Love Confessions, M/M, Mention of canon-typical violence, aka the one where jon is brave and damian is complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 01:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15808344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caersun/pseuds/darnianwayne
Summary: Jon confesses. Damian star-gazes.Somehow, it works out. Then again, it always does.





	club-bearing, kneeling boy

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the nebulous future where Jon's 14, Damian's 16, and we ignore bad, evil-izing canon.

Somewhere along the way, it had become their habit to convene here after a mission gone well. Away from their father’s cities. Away from the bustle and activity. Only them, relaxed in a sprawl, half out of their suits already. Civilian-status. Sparingly dressed as Robin and Superboy, as Damian and Jon, sitting on Superboy’s cape, surrounded by the odds and ends of Robin’s armor, faces bare—Damian knew the exact kind of displeased glower his Father would make if he were able to see them. 

Not that it mattered much. The Kent (“Smith!” Jon insisted on correcting every time) farmland had been uninhabited for years. Though in a lot of ways, Damian knew, it was still a tactical mistake to be here at all. The Kent farm did not have the protection of their Fortress. It did not have the same easy access to outside lines of communication. Damian was sure, the farm did not even have a computer for them to write their mission reports. 

Yet the locale had its merits.

Even in Metropolis, far from Gotham’s greenish plumes of constant pollution, the stars were never so bright as they were in Hamilton County. 

Above, Damian could make out Hercules glittering in the night sky, though his body flickered in and out beyond the cloud cover. Kornephoros was obscured. Damian waited for the clouds to pass, and as an afterthought, by habit, he located Polaris. 

Beside him, Jon sat up in one sudden movement. Damian waited, having expected this. 

Jon hesitated. 

Damian turned his head to look at him. He did not bother getting up. 

“Going to spit it out?” he drawled. 

Jon’s determined face, the same one he wore when he was about to do something indescribably stupid—or brave, but usually stupid—crumpled. He stared at Damian, wide-eyed. “W-what do you mean?” 

Damian rolled his eyes, turning back to the night sky. Kornephoros had cleared. 

“You have been trying to tell me something for the past fifteen minutes.”

“I was n—!” Jon cut off his own indignant reply, huffing. “Okay. How did you know that?”

Damian gave him a moment.

“Right, right, nevermind,” said Jon, shaking his head. “‘ _I’m the son of Batman._ ’ Whatever.” 

“Was that supposed to be me?”

“Yeah. Like it? I’ve been working on my ‘I’m a pretentious butthead’ voice.”

“Butthead? Careful, Jon. Your father might be listening.”

“Bite me,” said Jon.

“ _ Bite me _ ,” mimicked Damian, in Jon’s voice, his inflection exact.

“I hate it when you do that.” Jon threw himself back down on his cape, starfishing. 

Damian did not reply. He busied himself with identifying the stars of Draco and Lyra. Jon started to tense again, shoulders drawing together, breath irregular. 

A minute passed.

Sighing, Damian sat up. 

Jon’s head jerked up. “What—”

“Well, come on,” said Damian, impatient now. “Whatever it is, you must really be dreading it to get so worked up. Might as well get it over with.”

“Uh.” Jon seemed to shrink on himself. 

“Get up, Kent,” Damian ordered. “You are not a coward. Stop acting like one.” 

Jon sat up and faced Damian. He smiled. “You know, I think there was a compliment somewhere in there.”

“You must be hearing things.”

Jon laughed, but it was not like his regularly laugh. It was a high-pitched, nervous sound, completely unlike Jon, accented by a grimace that could not quite qualify as a smile. 

Damian frowned. Jon was never nervous of telling Damian anything. From the embarrassing and hurtful to the vulnerable and unimpressive, Jon told Damian everything, even when Damian wished he would not. (In fact, he could often do without a play-by-play of Jon’s various adolescent dramas, thank you very much.) 

Recognizing the severity of Jon’s nervousness, Damian forced his spine straighter, bracing himself.  _ He _ was no coward either. 

Jon stared into Damian’s eyes. Damian stared back.

Finally, Jon looked away, ducking his head.

In a small voice he began, “Damian.” And paused. 

“Jon,” Damian acknowledged with a tilt of his head.

Jon looked up, peeking through the fall of his hair. Then, his cheeks flushed pink, and again he looked away. 

Damian blinked. 

“God, this is hard,” Jon whispered, so lowly Damian was sure he was not meant to hear. Jon laughed, a sharp self-deprecating chuckle. 

Damian’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand.” He struggled to keep his voice quiet and level, so as not to upset Jon further. Now was no time for Damian to become frustrated, not when his friend was visibly distressed and Damian could think of nothing to help. 

“I’m no good at this.” Jon poked at a Batarang by his knee. “I thought I would just be able to  _ say _ it. I mean, you’re my  _ best friend _ . This shouldn’t be so hard. Embarrassing, sure, but it—I mean—Dammit, Kent,” muttered Jon. 

“Embarrassing?” Damian echoed. 

Jon glared down at the Batarang. Then he glared up at Damian. “Do you trust me?” he asked. 

“Yes,” answered Damian, entirely too fast. He could feel himself redden but managed not to look away. 

Jon nodded, expecting nothing less. Of course he wouldn’t; it was Jon. 

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Damian blinked. “Pardon?”

“Close your eyes,” Jon said again. His expression was strange, determined and frightened all at once, only a slight difference to his battle, stupid-brave face. 

“Will closing my eyes help you?” asked Damian, skeptical.

“Yeah. Just. Just don’t punch me, okay?”

Damian made sure to give Jon his flattest, most unimpressed glower.  _ Don’t make me punch you _ went unsaid. He closed his eyes. 

At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, Damian heard fabric move. He sensed as Jon shifted to his knees. Felt the air move as Jon inched closer. And closer. Closer still. 

A lesser man might have flinched away from the oncoming intrusion. Damian himself might’ve, had it been anyone other than Jon. He valued his personal space and did not handle invasions to it very well. But he stayed still, hardly daring to breathe.

Jon moved closer. Yet he did not angle for Damian’s ear, as Damian expected, to whisper his secret. Jon’s path did not veer. Damian only realized the path’s natural conclusion a half-second before completion. 

Then, quite suddenly, there was a pillowy pressure on Damian’s lips, and his nose filled with the scent of lightning and grass. 

Damian’s eyes flew open. 

Jon’s eyelids—pale pink to lavender to inky lashes—were very, very close. 

Another second.

Jon moved back. The pressure on Damian’s lips disappeared. Jon’s eyes fluttered open. 

Damian had never seen him look so red, nor so terrified.

They stared at one another. Impossibly, Jon seemed to glow redder from the tips of his ears down into the collar of his uniform. 

A kiss. 

Jon had kissed Damian. 

Damian said, intelligently, “Oh.” His thoughts would not settle past the single syllable.

Jon flinched. 

Damian tried harder to clear his head. He said, “You like me.”

He saw Jon’s fists curl bone-white.

“Romantically,” said Damian.

Jon frowned. 

Damian frowned, too. “Why?”

“What d’ya mean why?” Jon’s color was slowly returning to normal. He glowered at some point past Damian’s left ear. “I like you. Yeah. Doesn’t matter anyway.” He shrugged. “Listen, Dami, it’s fine. You don’t have to put so much effort on my account. I get it, you don’t like me that way. Whatever. Let’s just pretend this whole thing never happened, okay? You don’t have to—have to drag this out to spare my feelings or—” 

“I didn’t say that,” said Damian.

Jon’s gaze struck back to his. 

Damian felt the heat rise to his face. He said, “I don’t  _ not _ …” 

Jon’s eyes widened. 

Damian coughed. He looked at the Batarang between them; the concave edge had begun to dull. He would have to sharpen it soon. Softly, Damian admitted, “You surprise me.”

“Oh.” Faint.

“Will you…” Damian licked his lips. Paused, stricken. A new taste, he realized with light-headed clarity. “I need to think,” said Damian, more breath than speech. 

“Okay.” Jon nodded absently. He had not stopped looking at Damian. He had not blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, take your time,” said Jon, auto-piloted. 

Damian looked back at Polaris. Hercules. Draco and Lyra. The Ursas. He identified them with exactitude, as his Mother had once taught him. “A true conqueror is never lost,” she would whisper into his hair, a lifetime ago. “For he only has to look up”—and she would guide his hand across the darkened sky, tracing shapes—“to know where he is and take comfort.”

Damian let out a breath, less sigh than simple exhale. In his mind, he recited. 

Summer. 

Northern Hemisphere. 

America. Mid-Atlantic. Hamilton County. Smith Farm.

Jonathan Kent’s childhood home. 

It seemed impossible to be here, with Jon at his side, after everything.

Damian was too like his father, too like his mother. His grandfather. No matter how many years passed, how far he outran his childhood, his first instinct would always be to violence. 

He could not unknow all he did: the ease of splitting skin with a blade, the feel of bone and sinew giving way to blows, the sense of pride when his retinue followed commands to his letter. Damian would never be free of the knowledge of all he had done, how easy it had been to do, how easily he could do it again. 

He found himself sometimes—darkened, alone, struggling with who he wanted to be versus who he was—half-wishing for the simplicity of being four, seven, nine, when his world made sense and he weaponized himself at his Mother’s command.

There was, after all, a type of beauty in his Mother’s absolutes. Black and white. Right and wrong. Life and death. 

Live. Or die. 

Damian knew that well. 

And he knew Jon was everything he was not. Bright and hopeful, Jon managed to preserve a degree of innocence Damian was sure he had never possessed. He ached, sometimes, seeing the expression of it so clearly on his face, as if the world really was a beautiful place filled with mostly good people. It no longer surprised him how doggedly he had chased Jon when they were children: a lost boy chasing the flaming coattail-rays of the Sun. It surprised him that Jon had let him, that he had stayed. 

Jon had stayed. He stayed.

The moon shifted to center-sky. 

Still looking up, Damian asked, “Did I ever tell you of my first kill?”

Jon started so violently he skyrocketed upward. Immediately, Damian grabbed his shoe and hauled him back, where he landed on his backside.

“Thanks,” Jon said automatically, then stammared, “Uh, no? You really don’t have to tell me that. I mean, Dami. You  _ really _ —” 

“It’s only fair,” said Damian. “I know almost everything about you. You know next to nothing about me—my past.”

“I don’t need to,” said Jon. “I know who you are now, that’s all that matters.”

“I disagree. Will you allow me to tell you this?”

“I don’t know what this has to do with me kissing you, but okay,” Jon grumbled, embarrassed. 

Damian smiled, completely against his own volition. Then he sighed.

“You know, of course, that I used to live with Mother and the League of Shadows before coming to live with Father and his family, on my tenth birthday.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jon nod, attention entirely on him. Damian continued, taking care to keep his tone as clinical and even as he could,  “As Heir Presumptive to the Demon’s Head, Mother trained me since birth in all manner of things: history, languages, maths. But naturally the greatest part of my training consisted of combat skills. She said I would need to know the multitude of ways to eliminate my enemies and lead an army when I took my place as the world’s next Alexander.”

Damian paused. He remembered the look on her face as she led him across the maps that made up her chamber floors. He remembered the way she had smiled and wrapped him in an embrace, warm and secure. 

He swallowed, throat tight.

“One day,” said Damian, “after sword lessons, Mother escorted me to her antechamber. I was excited; it was not often Mother took me from lessons herself. I was used to seeing her only in mornings and evenings during mealtimes. This was a special occasion, she told me. A chance to prove myself. I was eager for it and unsurprised to see that her antechamber was in full audience. At the center of the room, a filthy man was bound and gagged. I remember he smelled positively foul.

“ ‘This man is a minister,’ Mother said.”

Damian did not notice Jon jerk at the sound of Talia al Ghul’s voice coming from Damian’s mouth. Damian continued without misstep. 

“She was passing judgement,” he explained, “though I would not know that until later.

“She said, ‘He has taken a girl of six from her family and kept her like an animal. Worse! Beaten her, abused her, perversed her, murdered her. His government and position have protected him. Yesterday, he walked as a free man in his country.’ There was uproar from the League, outrage. Mother said that today, that day, he would be judged by a higher power.

“She took the sword from my hand and replaced it with her personal blade. A gift, she said. She smiled. And I knew what I had to do. I had been to executions before. I was not entirely sure what the filthy man was accused of, as I was a child myself, but I knew my duty. I approached the man.”

“Damian,” Jon whispered. 

Damian did not hear. He said, “As I closed in, the man began to beg and struggle. Futile. The League are professionals. He could no more make a sound than escape his bonds. I remember the look in his eyes as he watched me. It is a look I have seen again and again, but that—that was the first time. I did not recognize it then, watery and strange. A fear of death. I took my blade to his throat, though he thrashed. And I. I…”

Damian looked away from the sky. He could not bear to look at it, beautiful. Could not look at Jon, either. 

“I wish I could say I hesitated,” said Damian. “He was an evil man, I am not upset he is dead. Yet I wish I could say the look in his eyes stayed my hand, for even a second.” He found his lips pulling up, smiling around the heaviness in his throat. A trick to keep the heaviness there, contained, something he had learned to do from Dick. “It was easy,” Damian admitted, something like a secret. “Bone, sinew, meat, blood. That is all that makes up a life. It is easy to end. I should know. At some point, I stopped counting how many lives I have taken.”

For a long time, they both said nothing. There had been no natural conclusion to Damian’s telling, no easy segue. Damian had stopped talking because he did not know what else he could say that would not be the same excuses he told himself.  

The brightness of the moon and stars waxed and waned with the cloud cover. 

“How…” Jon tried, but he could not finish. 

“I was three,” said Damian. 

“ _ Three _ .” Jon sounded shattered by the number. “I think was still eating dirt and cutting myself on safety scissors when I was three.”

“I always have been an overachiever,” said Damian, only half joking. 

“Why did you tell me?”

Damian hesitated. “I need you to know,” he said. “Who I was. Who I could be.” Softly, “Who I am.”

Jon scowled, suddenly angry. “I know who you are.”

Damian did not let himself rise to the bait. “If you choose to tie yourself to me, Jon,” he said, as reasonably as he could, “then you have to know what you are getting yourself into. I am acerbic, bossy, and oftentimes difficult. My temper is short. Many would say I do not have a sense of humor at all, or if I do then it is at the expense of others, and that I am reckless with my life and the lives of others—”

“Wait,” said Jon, digging around the folds of his cape, “if you’re gonna keep roasting yourself, lemme get my phone out so I can record it.”

Damian turned to glare at him. “My point is,” he said, waiting until he had Jon’s full attention, “I will not change. I am not sure if I could.”

Bewildered, Jon asked, “Who’s asking you to?”

“You like me,” said Damian. Jon blushed, reminded of the start of their conversation. “Despite myself,” said Damian, “I like you as well. I assumed my feelings irrelevant—”

“You like me?” Jon interrupted. His nose scrunched incredulously. “ _ You _ like  _ me _ ?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Of course I do, you dolt. You are the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

Jon stared at him, eyes wide as saucers. “You can’t just  _ say _ that!”

“Why not? It is true.”

“God!” Jon fell back on his cape, covering his face with his hands. “This conversation is giving me emotional whiplash.”

Damian shifted, uncomfortable. “Sorry,” he mumbled. That had not been his intention. 

Jon sighed explosively. Then: “Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay. Are you trying to convince me that liking you is a bad idea or something?”

“No,” said Damian, truthfully. “Your emotions and decisions are your own. I cannot make them for you. However, I respect you too much to go into this on blind faith of who I am.”

“I told you.” Jon floated up in a direction that was vaguely vertical so he could roll his eyes in Damian’s face. “I know who you are. You’re mean and full of yourself and simultaneously the smartest and  _ dumbest _ person I have ever known.”

Damian had to purse his mouth to keep from retorting, unsure whether to be insulted.

“You’re also stubborn and never know when to give up,” Jon continued. “You’re strong. You try harder than anyone else to be good, to be the best hero you can be, even after all the crap that you’ve been through. Like. You make that choice, every day, in everything you do. You choose to be better than everyone else, so you kinda  _ are _ . You know? Not in—not that you’re literally better than everyone ever, because, one, that’s impossible and, two, you already have a big enough head, Brat Wonder. But like. You go out and  _ do _ stuff and you don’t take no for answer and you’re way harder on yourself than you should be.” 

Jon smiled at the gobsmacked expression on Damian’s face. “I know who you are, Dami. Thanks for telling that stuff about your past. I hope you want to tell me more stuff later. But it doesn’t change who you are  _ now _ . I—” Jon stopped, skin flaring. “I like who you are,” he said softly. 

“I think I lied,” said Damian.

“Huh?”

“I cannot be sure,” said Damian, feeling the uncontrollable smile on his face as he looked at Jon, “but I think I may be falling in love with you.”

Jon made a sound entirely like Titus’s dying chew toy and summarily fell into a heap on his cape.

Damian laughed, the way he only ever really did with Jon: unrestrained, carefree, as if the small piece of joy he had managed to take for himself was not as selfish as he usually thought. Jon looked indignant for all of a second before also dissolving into peals of laughter. 

“I have a request,” said Damian, when they had tired themselves and laid side-by-side on the cape. 

“Shoot,” said Jon.

“May I kiss you?”

Jon started, though thankfully he managed to stay tethered to gravity this time. After a long moment, trying to find some intent in Damian’s face, Jon said, “Yes.”

Damian sat up, legs tucked beneath him. Jon mirrored him; to Damian’s amusement he nearly overbalanced with his rush. 

“Do you trust me?” asked Damian, the earlier night and her constellations calling to him.

“Yes,” said Jon, as Damian had expected he would.

Damian scooted closer. Again he saw Jon’s skin dust with color, a light pink, no doubt an unfortunate effect of his pale skin. Slowly, each movement deliberate, Damian reached for him and placed a hand at his cheek. The skin was pleasantly warm and curved beneath Damian’s calluses. Damian could feel Jon’s deep breath on his thumb. 

Careful of the pressure, Damian trailed his hand down Jon’s face. 

He could not quite believe he was allowed this. 

He stopped at Jon’s throat, palm away, mostly fingers on skin now. He felt Jon swallow, was captivated by the motion, and when Damian looked back up at Jon’s face, he was surprised to see Jon’s eyes had closed. 

“Y-you’re showing me up,” said Jon.

“Always,” said Damian, smiling. With his other hand, he grabbed one of Jon’s own, balled on his knee. “Do you want me to stop? I will.”

Jon shook his head, moving Damian’s fingers, bumping his chin on Damian’s palm. 

“Then, relax,” said Damian, attempting to coax Jon’s hand open. “Please, if you can.”

Jon took a deep breath, as if gathering his strength. There was something endlessly endearing in that, something Damian could not name or give exact feeling to, but entirely, uniquely Jon. Forcefully, all one act of extreme will, Jon relaxed, shoulders falling, hands opening, spine loose. 

Damian pushed their hands together, interlacing their fingers. His other hand strayed to the back of Jon’s neck in feather-light touches. He could feel Jon’s pulse, a hammering beat, and was suddenly aware of exactly how much Jon trusted him, absurd as it was for Jon to allow his hands—killer’s hands—anywhere near where they were. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” whispered Damian.

“Fat chance,” retorted Jon, smiling. 

Damian moved closer. He was not nervous. A kiss was a simple intimacy, one Jon had already gifted him earlier in the night. He had not been nervous then, not in the half-second he had to process what was happening, and he was not nervous now.

This was Jon. Damian’s best friend. His partner.

He took a second to admire Jon’s smile, to breathe Jon’s air. Damian licked his lips. 

Then, he kissed Jon. 

It was not, objectively, a perfect kiss. Their lips had dried and cracked in the open night air. The angle was not quite right. Damian did not entirely know what he was doing, pressing gently against Jon. He opened his mouth slightly to cushion Jon’s upper lip between his own, and that was better. Jon gasped, pressing back. It was comfortable. Warm. Exciting in a lazy way Damian had little experience with, something between the anticipation of homecoming and an eventful mission. 

Beneath Hercules and the summer menagerie, the kiss seemed to last eons, stars born and dying in the seconds that stretched syrup-slow around them. 

When Damian pulled away, Jon followed. They kissed again. Differently. Ultimately, the same. Damian did not mind surrendering the lead in this, at least for a short time. 

Eventually, they separated, though Jon kept a firm hold on his hand. When he would not let go after an initial tug, Damian found himself flustered. Kissing was new, sure, but Damian was confident in his ability to learn quickly.  _ Holding hands _ was something else entirely. Small intimacies, caresses, what close companions shared beyond the abstractly carnal Damian knew must come with age—completely and utterly alien. 

It made sense it was Jon Kent, half-alien, that Damian would share this with. It made sense he would not mind holding Jon’s hand. It made sense that he wanted to, for as long as Jon would let him. 

“You know,” Jon said. His smile was stupid, a match to Damian’s own. “This means we’re dating.”

“Does it?” said Damian. “I don’t remember agreeing—”

“Dami,” said Jon, rolling his eyes. “Shut up.”

Damian did not.

He said, still smiling, “I did not agree to dating you. In fact, I don’t believe you even asked.” Jon’s smile dipped, realizing the truth of it. “So allow me,” said Damian, before Jon’s expression could grow truly melancholic. He grabbed Jon’s other hand and cradled them between his own.

“Jonathan Kent, would you accompany me on a date?”

Jon stared, then laughed. He let go of Damian’s hands to rub at his face. “Oh my god,” he said. “I don’t know if you suck or are, like, freaky good at this romance thing like you are everything else, dude, but.” Jon dropped his hands and leaned forward to grin at Damian, eyes sparkling in a familiar tease. “Yes,” said Jon. “Yeah, I’ll date you.”

“Good,” said Damian, grinning back. “ _ Now _ we’re dating.”

They spent another two hours in the field—teasing, talking, discovering the new within the years-old familiarity and friendship they had managed to cultivate between them—when Jon’s phone trilled the requisite half-hour warning. Soon, Lois Lane would be waking in Metropolis, and neither Jon nor Damian had any desire to inspire one of the infamous lectures Clark and Bruce had long decided were best to let Lois deliver. 

They got up, dusting off their uniforms and hiding yawns behind their hands. Their movements were easy, rote, as Damian replaced the pieces of his armor and Jon clipped the cape over his shoulders and stretched. They had done this too many times before for this to be anything but familiar, yet there was an undercurrent of energy despite the late hour. It was in the way Damian allowed himself to smile, the way Jon’s cheeks seemed to be permanently tinged pink, how they both hesitated, suddenly shy, when Jon opened his arms to carry Robin as he always insisted he should.

“It’s the most comfortable way to travel, Dami,” said Jon, but his voice was pitched nervous instead of teasing, as it usually was.

Damian had never accepted Jon’s offer. Undignified, he’d called it on more than one occasion. Infantile and unnecessary. A dishonor to his name and all that he stood for as the heir to the Bat and title-holder Robin.

Damian considered and moved forward. Jon’s eyes widened, surprised, and he made another one of those strange half-noises as Damian curled his arms under Jon’s, embracing him. Jon hugged back, his hair tickling Damian’s cheek. Damian smirked at that, as infinitely smug as he had been for the past month he was finally the taller and broader of the two. 

He said, into Jon’s ear, “Absolutely not,” and pressed a button on his gauntlet.

From the tight brush of corn stalks adjacent to the field, Damian’s Robin Cycle roared to life. 

Jon laughed again. They parted. 

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Jon shrugged.

Then—and it should not have come as a surprise, not after a night like tonight, but—Jon pressed a kiss to Damian’s cheek, jumped away, and shot into the sky.

“‘Night, Robin!” called Jon, waving. “Text me!”

Damian looked up. He did not bother to wave; Jon would be able to see his expression clearly enough if he wished. 

The overcast had cleared. Up in the sky, the Northern constellations shined without interruption, Kornephoros and Polaris brightest among the dark.


End file.
